Page 37 of The First Scar
"Brannick will show you where to sleep. The trials begin when I say they begin." A pause. "Welcome to the Uncrowned, Amaria.”
Brannick steered us out of the chamber, chattering the whole way. I tuned him out somewhere between "sleeping quarters" and "you're going to love it here."
"—and the food's not bad once you stop asking what's in it—"
A figure peeled off the wall ahead and fell into step beside us. Maxx. Of course he was a member of the Uncrowned. That too-pretty face belonged on a wanted poster for crimes against modesty.
"Well, well." He bit into a fig, slow and deliberate, letting his eyes drag over me while juice ran down his chin.
I was not staring. I was not salivating. I swallowed.
His grin turned wicked. Bastard caught me looking.
"The infamous dual-marked, gracing us with her presence. I'm honored. Truly. Moved, even."
"I'm armed," I said flatly.
"So am I, Flameheart. Difference is, I'm also charming." He winked, then his gaze slid to Serenya—and stuck. He blinked. Recovered. Almost. "And who's this? Please tell me she's the brains of the operation, because you've got that 'stab first, ask questions never' energy."
"She's off-limits," I said.
"Noted. Filed. Completely ignored." He sidled up to Serenya's other side, and her mouth twitched—fighting a smile or fighting the urge to hit him, I couldn't tell.
"I'm Maxx, by the way. In case you were wondering who to blame when things inevitably go sideways."
Serenya gave him a small smile and then quickly turned her eyes back to the crowd around us.
Brannick sighed the sigh of a male who'd had this conversation before. "He's harmless."
"I amprofoundlyharmful," Maxx corrected. "I'm just selective about it."
We passed through a narrow corridor, the stone walls slick with moisture and carved with symbols I didn't recognize. Probably warnings. Probably something useful. Another thing no one thought to explain to the fugitive they'd just recruited.
At the edge of the next chamber, two veiled figures sat motionless, their hands moving in eerie synchrony—carving bone tokens into runes without ever looking down.
The Seer Twins.
No one introduced them. No one needed to.
I'd heard the stories—everyone had. The Frozen North's infamous exiles. Aerys and Nyra had committed the one sin theirhomeland couldn't forgive: they'd changed a prophecy. Reached into the frozen certainty of tomorrow andbentit.
In a land that punished crimes before they were committed, that was more than heresy. It was an unraveling. If the future could be changed, then every law carved in ice was a lie. Every execution for a crime not yet committed was murder.
They veiled their faces, the stories said, not from shame but for mercy. Their unveiled eyes showed you which death walked closest today.
Looking at them now—bone tokens in hand, movements synchronized in that eerie, automated way—I believed every word.
One whispered, "The scar walks."
The other murmured, "Or the wound dreams."
They didn't break rhythm. Just kept carving, their voices threading together like a song sung slightly out of time.
"Ignore them," Maxx said, too cheerfully. "They do that. Last week they told me I'd 'drown in a river of my own making.' Very dramatic. Very unhelpful. I don't even like swimming."
Serenya's brow furrowed. "What did you do?"
"Nothing yet. That's the problem with prophecy—it's all spoilers, no context." He gestured ahead with a flourish. "Moving on before they say something aboutyouand ruin the mystery."
